Forgietan
by Kyasarina
Summary: It's depressing, realising that you've forgotten your old languages. Especially when it means you can't read ancient sagas, even if normal people wouldn't be doing it anyway. But as Scotland knows, all you need is a flashback to snap you out of it.


He listens to an ancient tale, listening to what has been written. He cannot remember how to speak; only the text speaks in place of his forgetfulness.

_hwæt we gar-dena in geardagum,_

_þeodycninga þrym gefrunon_

Water smashes off the windowpanes while the low sound of thunder accompanies the quick flash of white lightning. Rain trickles down the streets, clinging to the metal until they let go, falling into the dark sewers.

_hu ða æþelingas ellen fremedon._

_oft scyld scefing sceaþena þreatum_

The lonely man does not watch the storm. He sits and glances at the pages of a book he has long since first known; long since first heard. No word from amongst the many is seeping into him. Sad, for they once did.

_monegum mægþum meodosetla ofteah,_

_egsode eaorlas, syððan ærest wearð_

The old room is furnished simply. He stands beside an antique of a wooden chair, too old to serve its purpose. The walls are bare except from a few ancient texts. A small worn table stands hidden in a dark corner.

_feasceaft funden; he þæs frofre gebad, _

_weox under wolcnum, weorðmyndum þah,_

A window intrudes. It does not belong here. It is alien, a stark reminder of the world outside in more ways than one. Too-white frame. Too-smooth, too-clear glass. Window. It's not a word he'd planned to add to his collection. A word of a armour-clad warrior who came one day long to devour the isolated. The fault of another; the fault of a man from across the southern sea that the man resents so bitterly.

_oðþæt him æghwylc þær ymbsittendra_

_ofer hronrade hyran scolde,_

Placing the ancient and once well-loved book gently on the nearby table, he decides to catch a glance of the storm - as though he is as stranger to such a thing. It's not as though there's a curtain to block the view.

Placing a hand against the window, he dares to look out it. The illusion of a past gone for hundreds of years shatters before the rain can blur the modern well-trimmed garden covered with rose bushes, red and white. Always red and white: for the lonely man never takes a side against another in a well-balanced split. Civil war's an ugly phrase, a painful phrase and painful times.

The only companions who were there in a bloody war where two roses vied for a crown that would live on are the dust of history and him, the lonely man who cannot remember his first words, his first languages.

The book, undisturbed for a hundred years or more until this night lies in the dust.

The lonely man is an old man. His reminisces are common and confused and not a well-guarded secret.

The lonely man cannot remember who he is. Conquered by the might of a man still spoken of with reverence and respect? Rome? Should he not remember if this is so? Maybe he is another, a child born of the many tribes. So many names scratched into history, gone. Alas, he has no recollection. Later then. The son of the new invader? The Germanic speaker who would pull everything together before fading away so fast. He has the memories if this is so, hazy but clinging on there.

He is all. The old man knows he has been this cold isolated place from his birth. Small, weak, not a person. A being, a spirit, waiting for the time which had potential to be right. Clinging onto life through the millennia, never ceasing to be through the death of a culture, a people. Life for the price of change, change for the prize of life.

He remembers when he could read the book he discards now. An adopted writing, an adopted sound pressed upon him by those he once despised and once became.

He can't read it.

Not anymore.

The lonely man walks through the storm. Walls suffocate and a roof crushes down. The open is a blessing to him. The familiarity of the streams of rain cascading down his face is beautiful to him. His hair is flat and blinking dislodges droplets of cold wet water.

The lonely man wanders aimlessly to a place he half-remembers. An ancient stone bridge has somehow stood against the centuries, only a few pebbles splashing down into the trickling stream. He reaches it, yet it is not deserted.

A man disregards the age of the bridge: he is perched upon it quite calmly, not seeming to care if it were to break apart under his weight. Indeed, it is surprising that he has not already slipped in the pouring rain.

Not a word passes between the two for some seconds. The lonely man feels that it is odd, him being here. A voice indicates that the man knows he is not alone as other's lips twist towards the sky and murmur a cutting remark. The lonely man should not be outside in the storm. A frail man is weak and would be carried above the grey clouds by a gust of wind.

The lonely man cannot remember how to speak the language he once knew.

The stranger is still. Only the storm continues, above the worries of the living. Substantial brows furrow then relax as the man sitting carelessly on an ancient bridge recounts a tale of an encounter far before the birth of a modern world was realised. Someone neither child nor man and another who had been given no chances. Does the lonely man remember?

The lonely man met him here. Didn't he?

Angelcynn met Alba.

Alba met Sasa, you mean.

Sun burns away the storm-clouds, trees rustle with an old wind. The stream picks up life, the bridge is new. A child stumbles through the forest, eyes burning with unshed tears past the ghosts of his future looking back at him. He gasps, startled by the sight of a stranger: a copy of the older man still sits where his older self sits on the bridge.

"_H-hwanon come þu_?" The boy asks where the older person came from nervously, hand creeping for a bow he cannot use as well as his twin back home in the south.

The stranger is shaken from his reverie. He looks at the boy who glares at him with fear and suspicious green eyes.

"_Chan eil Beurla agam_." The teenager helpfully informs the boy that he doesn't speak his language in his newest tongue, taught by a man from across the western sea whose name is Éire. He knows enough of a dialect of the language from some of his lowlanders that the boy is speaking _Ænglisc_, English. He informs the boy that he can't speak English - the only thing he really knows how to say in it. "_Ic ne cann Englisce sprecan_."

"Oh, um… _ic besorgie_…" The boy isn't sure what he's apologising for. The boy doesn't seem to speak the stranger's language either, as he seems to be at a loss for how to communicate with the stranger.

Having an idea, the stranger points at himself. "_Tha mi Alba_."

The boy slowly draws his hand away from his bow. "Hah… mee… Alba? _Ic_ _þæt ne undergiete_…" he admits to not understanding to other.

Pointing at himself more firmly, the teenager repeats himself, this time with impatience. "_Alba_."

The boy understands. "_Oh_, _þin nama is 'Alba'_." He smiles, some of his terror fading away. He lets his arms drop to his sides. "_Wes hal, Alba_. _Min nama is Angelcynn_."

"_Angelcynn_? _Dà mhionaid_, _tha thu Sasainn_?" The teenager realises the identity of the child with a slight shock, having to steady himself so he doesn't fall off the bridge. Of all the people, he actually met the land itself. Maybe it wasn't so coincidental: after all, nations are drawn to each other. The boy, for his part, doesn't look to concerned, only interested in the stranger's identity.

Shyly, the boy climbs onto the bridge. Fumbling, he loses his grip by accident. "Ahh!" he gasps, sure he is about to fall. He knows from experience that it hurts; but then he feels something grab him before he tumbles into the water.

"_Tha sin cunnartach, bidh curramach_!" the teenager says, scolding the boy to be more careful.

"_Ic besorgie_…" The boy apologises, understanding what the teenager is basically saying. His eyes are watering even more, yet he doesn't want to cry.

The teenager notices and sighs. "_Tha, tha_," he says wearily. He looks out across the stream to the trees ahead. "Oh, _Sasa_ - _chan eil_, _chan eil_, _Angelcynn_?"

"_G-gese_?" the boy says.

The teen had to make sure. "_A bheil bràither agad_? Um… _teaghlach_."

"_Ic besorgie_…" the boy says. "_Ic_ _þæt ne undergiete_." Well, it was a long stretch that he would understand the foreign words in the first place.

Yet another idea occurred, but how to put it. "Hm… _a_… _A'Chuimrigh_…?"

"_Cymru? Oh,_ _Brytenland_? _Min brothor_?" the boy adds in helpfully, knowing his brother's own name.

"_Tha; e fhèin_," says the teen, grateful that he doesn't have to sound like a fool attempting to speak a language he doesn't yet know. He doesn't show the emotion, though. He now knows the boy's identity for certain. "_Tha thu Sasainn_, _tha mi deimhinne_. _Sasa_. _Tha_, _Sasa_."

With that, the teen returns to looking out over the water. The boy looks around, then decides to stay there for a little while as storm-clouds hide the sun and the cold wind picks up. It carries the rain which starts falling heavily.

The lonely man remembers a first meeting.

"You _should_; you met _me_ after all. Who could forget me?"

Ignoring the comment, the lonely man closed his eyes.

"Still depressed, Sasa? Come on. It's not that much of a tragedy to be hazy on a language you've not spoken in centuries. You've still got one after all. And it's yours made out of a lot of people's - there's got to be something good about that, ken?"

"B-brother?"

"I know, I know, I'm brilliant and wise and other stuff."

The lonely man - England - smiled. "Thanks."

Scotland laughed. "Can't have that. Tell me what you're thankful for so I can take it back."

"Nothing, nothing," said England, turning away with a small smile.

"Whatever. I'll see you sometime, then."

"See you soon."

"Hope not… Sasa."

They part ways with a smile.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: The codes for þ, ð and æ have been burnt into my hands. Looking over this, I'm not sure why I wrote it exactly… *sweatdrop***

**Ah, Wikipedia, I do love your oh-so-helpful nowadays 'common' old English phrases. XD**

**While Welsh and Irish are still (somewhat) well-known languages in their respective countries, hardly anyone speaks Scottish Gaelic fluently (and they're mostly concentrated in a small area). Scotland as a whole doesn't care too much though, but he would know what it's like to slowly forget a language - which is why he gets why England is upset at forgetting his old language. If that makes any sense… *another sweatdrop* Scottish Gaelic was probably different back then (like English) but it's near enough impossible to find _modern_ Scottish Gaelic translators...  
><strong>

'_**Forgietan**_**' is the old English for 'to forget'.**

"_**Sasainn**_**" is the Scottish Gaelic word for England, therefore my head-canon dictates that Scotland's pet name for England (when nobody else can hear them) is "Sasa".**

**The poem England was reading was the first few lines of 'Beowulf'. It's one of the earliest sources of old English still existing today. Here's a translation:**

_hwæt we gar-dena in geardagum,_

_þeodycninga þrym gefrunon_

_hu ða æþelingas ellen fremedon._

_oft scyld scefing sceaþena þreatum_

_monegum mægþum meodosetla ofteah,_

_egsode eaorlas, syððan ærest wearð_

_feasceaft funden; he þæs frofre gebad, _

_weox under wolcnum, weorðmyndum þah,_

_oðþæt him æghwylc þær ymbsittendra_

_ofer hronrade hyran scolde,_

_gomban gyldan. þæt waes god cyning!_

**Lo, praise of the prowess of people-kings**

**Of spear-armed Danes, in days long sped,**

**We have heard, and what honour the athelings won!**

**Oft Scyld the Scefing from squadroned foes,**

**From many a tribe, the mead-bench tore,**

**Awing the earls. Since erst he lay,**

**Friendless, a foundling, fate repaid him: **

**For he waxed under welkin, in wealth he throve,**

**Till before him the folk, both far and near,**

**Who house by the whale-path, heard his mandate,**

**Gave him gifts: a good king he!**


End file.
